


Dark On Fire

by amutemockingjay



Category: Red vs. Blue, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:22:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3559337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amutemockingjay/pseuds/amutemockingjay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The four were trapped. One in her own failure, the other in her vulnerability. He wanted to outrun everything. And the last of the four? Trying so desperately to break into memory that was never meant to be unlocked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reaping Day

**Author's Note:**

> I did a thing where I crossed over THG with RvB and had a hell of a fun time doing it.

_My friend, you would not tell with such high zest_  
To children ardent for some desperate glory,   
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est   
Pro patria mori.

_\--Wilfred Owen_

* * *

It was her first reaping day, and she could barely stand upright. In her starched purple dress, washed and fitted for the occasion, she stood in the back of the crowd with the other twelve year olds, their whispers only heightening her nerves. She knew exactly what was going to happen—what child in the nation of Panem had not heard of the Hunger Games?

But that didn’t make it any easier.

Nor did the knowledge of her parent’s sacrifice for her safety; only putting her name in for one ration of oil and tesserae despite the fact that they would go to bed hungry as a result. There were other children in District 11 who had a better chance, but even that small comfort was fleeting as the Mayor reached for the glass bowls stuffed with paper. The name of the girl tribute was beneath his fingertips at that very moment and she could hardly breathe; the bodice of her dress suddenly far too tight and the ground staggering and off kilter.

Only a few seconds more, she reminded herself.

A few seconds more and her first reaping would be done and over with, a different name read and another girl taken from her home to fight to the death under the watchful, brutal gaze of the Capitol. Someone else’s pain to be splashed on national television, so very far from her home, her world in the wheat fields of District 11. Starving, yes, but at least together; at least not fighting the unknown.

Or so she thought.

Until her name, Carolina, was read larger than life and she saw herself stagger towards the stage, frail and feeble and numb on the inside. Twelve years old, and her life was over before it had even truly begun.

* * *

The son of a coal miner from the Seam would never be good enough. True, Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the 50th Hunger Games, was already the laughingstock of District 12 with his drunken antics but York knew he would barely be considered above Abernathy’s level—or so went the vicious gossip that spread across the entire District. It was the secret, hidden tradition of betting over possible candidates for the year’s reaping that brought York these pearls of wisdom.

York, the fifteen year old loner who liked to play with locks and keys in his spare time—what a waste! Sure, the girl tribute, South Dakota, had strength, had potential, even without her twin brother. But the lanky, slacker, prideful, good for nothing York? An amateur thief with a hopeless future?

He had his name submitted too many times to count; his younger sisters, too small for reaping day, were counting on the ration of oil and essential tesserae grain given for each submission of his name in the pot. They had so little as it was that York couldn’t bear to say no. All he could do was close his eyes and hope he wasn’t picked.

Unfortunately, today luck was far from his side.

With the snatches of overhead gossip running laps in York’s mind he bounded up to the stage, turning to his new partner and flashing her a confident, irresistible grin. All for the audience, all for the cameras filming. He took her pale hand in his and shook it, determined to focus on anything but the fate ahead of him. Whether it be life or death (and it was nearly certain to be the latter), York reminded himself to never show his fear.

Never let them see you sweat.

Take care of the girl, outrun the others, and keep pushing, no matter how hard it gets.

Even if it’s all a boldfaced lie.


	2. Like a Rose

_“Tex is…confusing. The Director and Counselor always worked so closely with her, she was, like... their favorite.”_

_“You sound jealous. What's the matter, Daddy didn't love you enough?”_

_“We were a competitive group. We had to be. But she always had special treatment from our superiors. There has to be a reason for that. She is... she's... I don't know what she is.”_

\--Washington and Church, Reconstruction: Chapter Seventeen

* * *

Each tribute was given an hour to say goodbye to their family, but as far as Tex was concerned it was an hour too much. Her mother hadn’t shown up to say goodbye, and at this point she didn’t expect them to. She had left Tex in a community home five years ago for not being picked in her first reaping.

A failure, too shameful to be seen with again.

Though that’s how it was in District 2. With children training for the Games their entire lives, anything less than perfection was considered unacceptable. Oftentimes whoever was picked in the reaping wouldn’t even get the chance to compete; a hopeful would volunteer in their place. And at age seventeen, Tex took her rightful place amongst the volunteers, next to a tall, well-fed brown-haired boy her own age—she couldn’t remember his name as well as she should have. Washingtub? Washington? One of the two; it didn’t matter. She trained on her own, and no one was going to get in her way.

Not this time; not any time.

There had been too many days of being within sight of her goal and just missing it by a few seconds, a mere twist of fate. Too many days of aching muscles and red-spotted eyes as she gritted her teeth and forced herself not to cry. Too many nights spent alone, curled up and trying to tune out the noise of the few other angry, rowdy children in the Community Home.

The ones in the outlying districts were more crowded; very few people in District 2 died of starvation, or abandoned their children. She just happened to be the exception to the rule, like she was with everything else. But, for once, she was determined to turn that in her favor, to stand up in triumph and shove it in her mother’s face on live television.

Nothing would be sweeter than that moment, and the Victory Tour that would follow. A moment all to herself, something she had held closest to her heart for as long as she could remember. Not forced to share with anyone, and she never would.

Except maybe—

Well, there was Church.

Tex sighed, absentmindedly tying up her bright red hair. He loved it when she wore it loose around her shoulders; all the more reason to put it up in a messy ponytail.

Leonard L. Church.

The constant thorn in her side and yet…

Yet there was something about him that she could never quite ignore, nor stop loving. Maybe it was the way his blue eyes shone when she talked to him. Or how when he was pissed or embarrassed his ears would turn bright red and he would flush like a girl. Or how whenever Tex pointed that he would get even angrier and start yelling in that slightly rough voice of his, twanged with an accent she could never quite place.

“Tex.”

Her breath caught in her throat—he was there, of course. Waiting like he always did. On most days it infuriated her, and even now she had to bite back the bitterness. Life was easier without goodbyes, didn’t he know that?

He would make her lose her focus on the arena now, if he insisted on being sweeter to her than she knew she deserved.

“What do you want?” she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What do you think? I’m not sitting here hanging around for the fun of it.” Church licked his lips and stepped towards her, uneasily perched on the edge of a seat next to her. He lowered his tone, and reached for her hand. “I had to say goodbye.”

She wrenched away from him, and shook her head, now untying her hair so that it sat upon her shoulders in that messy, fiery way he adored.

Let it sink in, she thought. Remember me this way, and then leave before it gets worse.

“Don’t do it, Church. Just go back home to your _mother_ and pretend we never met.” She spat the word ‘mother’ at him like it was the deadliest poison.

“Let’s leave mothers outta this!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, did I offend you? It’s not like you’re going to be fighting for your life four days from now. Get over it.” She leaned in directly across from him, her lips so close to his that she could feel the warmth of his breath. “And get over me. I don’t want your goodbyes.”

She had never seen him collapse so completely as he did in that moment, though he tried his best not to show it. In fact, those who didn’t know him well wouldn’t even know. They wouldn’t notice the dead look in his eyes, the furrowing of his brows, the collapse of his mouth into a fierce scowl, the corners of his lips trembling in an effort not to cry.

“Fine,” he said. “Fucking fine. You want to be that way, Tex…”

He pressed his lips to hers in an explosion of red hot anger, and before she could think she had melted into his kiss—into the fury, the lust, the fear of it all. She gave an involuntary sigh, and he pulled away in triumph. “That’s your goodbye, Tex. Whether you like it or not. Think of me in the Arena.” He turned around and, resting his hand on the doorknob, he thought better of it, and spun back to face her. Sure enough, the tips of his ears were red, and Tex’s heart gave a small squeeze at the sight. “Actually, scratch that,” he said. “Don’t think of me there. Because the girl you’re becoming isn’t the Tex I love.”

The slam of the door echoed in her ears all the way to the train station.

* * *

Maine hated goodbyes.

He never knew what to say, or even how to say it. Tongue tied, he stared down at the richly carpeted floor and shuffled one scuffed, dirty boot against it, satisfied at the dusty streak it left behind. He focused on everything but his Dad in front of him, those once bright green eyes dimmed, dull and tired from hunger and endless work.

Maine shared the same eyes; the pair looked so much alike that if it weren’t for the backbreaking work in the orchards of District 11 taking its toll, they could have been mistaken for brothers instead of father and son. But since the death of his mother two years ago, there had been little to bring back the life in his Dad.

“ ‘M sorry,” Maine muttered, running his hands through the fabric covering the chair he sat in.

Velvet; soft, plush, and finer than anything he was ever used to. He had no idea what he was even apologizing for, and he wanted to slap himself the moment he started speaking. But there had to be something said; anything at all, as the minutes ticked by and the silence filled his entire existence. The other families were making the most of every second—he saw his fellow tribute clinging to her mother—and here he was, too cowardly and confused to say what was going through his mind.

“It’s okay, son.” His father placed his hand on Maine’s shoulder in what he must have thought would be a comforting manner. But to Maine it was another burden, another heavy weight. A horrible thought passed through his mind, and he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block it out.

_If I had been chosen at the reaping two years ago, it would be better now._

Better off dead.

Twelve year old tributes rarely stood a chance in the Games; they were too scrawny, too inexperienced. Especially if they came from one of the poorer districts like his own, where it was common for children to be undernourished and faint from hunger, even during the harvest season. He figured if he was going to die he would rather it be by anything but starvation. Anything but that slow, painful withering away of the body and mind that took his mother.

“I…I…” Maine’s tongue felt thick in his mouth, and he licked his dry, chapped lips.

“It’s okay,” his father repeated, as if those two words were some sort of lifeline, a guarantee that Maine would get through this. It seemed all too quickly that the Peacekeepers arrived to separate the families; Maine could hear wrenched sobs as the girl tribute was pulled from her mother’s arms without mercy. Then it was his turn, and still he could not find the words.

He went with the Peacekeepers quietly, and just as the doors were closing behind the small clan of himself, the girl, their mentor for the Games and the Peacekeepers, it came to him in a rush of emotion.

“Dad! Wait!” he called, putting his hands in the door to keep it from closing.

The Peacekeepers, never kind in the best of circumstances, were giving him bone -chilling glares, but Maine didn’t care.

“Dad!” His father’s back was to Maine as he walked away, and Maine bit his lower lip, those few seconds agonizing.

_Turn around, please turn around…_

He did, and for that single moment, all was right in his Maine’s world. His father’s chin length, ashy blonde hair hung in his face, and he smiled like he hadn’t in years.

“I love you, Dad,” Maine managed to choke out, faking a small cough to keep himself from crying.

“Love you, too, kid. Give ‘em hell for me, okay?”

If he hadn’t been trying so hard to keep himself from crying he would have laughed. “I promise.”


	3. Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time when I wrote this, five years ago, I hadn't yet gotten to Catching Fire. As a result, I broke with THG canon. Oh well.

_“South rarely worked in a direct fashion.”_

\--Delta, Reconstruction: Chapter Eight

* * *

Carolina had never seen something so beautiful in her entire life. The shock of it dried up the constant flow of tears that had been streaming since she had said goodbye to her mother, and she bit the tip of her tongue to keep herself from crying again.

You’re a tribute now, she reminded herself. Tributes are strong, tributes never cry.

So instead she focused on the room before her, a room all to herself. Back home she lived in a one-room cottage with her mother, father, and her two brothers—a solemn four-year-old and a rambunctious toddler in the throes of the terrible twos—so even though the bunk on the train was slightly narrow, it was hers, all hers. She collapsed into the richly embroidered down comforter; she couldn’t help it. The walls were paneled in deep walnut wood, and the carpet that had been beneath her feet mere seconds ago was so thick she felt as though she could drown in it.

She buried her nose in the nest of the blankets and pillows; they smelled so perfect—crisp, clean, perfumed with something beyond the ordinary soap that her mother used to launder clothes with in District 11. This scent was sweeter, stronger, and it reminded Carolina a little bit of the fruit she harvested when the season came. So plump and juicy, but rarely to call her own.

“Mmmm.” she murmured; she could stay curled up here forever.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Huh?” She shot straight upwards, causing her to bump her head on the bunk above her. She winced and rubbed a small lump that had instantly blossomed on her forehead.

The boy that addressed her was tall, lanky, with very little muscle on him—unusual for those who worked in the wheat fields as he must have. Unless he was an orchard boy, of course, but Carolina couldn’t recall seeing him there before, and climbing from tree to tree required a certain amount of strength. He was unusual in another way as well—most from District 11 (like herself) had dark skin, eyes, and hair, but not this boy. He was slightly tanned, yes, but his hair was a shade of golden-brown blonde that fell to his chin, and his eyes were a piercing, magnetic shade of green that practically seemed to glow.

“Forgotten me already, Carolina?” He gave her a small, ironic smile, and that’s when it hit her.

_My fellow tribute. How could I be so stupid?_

She untangled her limbs from the bedding and only managed to slide to the floor in an undignified heap. He laughed, and she instantly fell in love with the sound; so carefree and bold, like he wasn’t afraid of anything. And maybe he wasn’t, considering the way he held himself, cocky and self-assured, though there was still a sense of comfort about him, and Carolina felt as though she could go to him for anything.

“You’re…Maine, right?”

She mentally kicked herself for being uncertain of his name, but he didn’t seem to take the slightest offense.

“Yep,” he said, nodding. “The one and only.” He walked over to her where she still sat in a rather pathetic positioning, her limbs refusing to cooperate. He extended his hand to pull her to her feet. “Nice to meetcha, even though I already have.”

She took it, blushing slightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t remember,” she murmured.

“No problem. You looked pretty upset sayin’ goodbye to your folks so’s I didn’t expect you to remember a damn thing.”

Her eyes widened a bit at the curse, and he laughed again at her astonishment. “I know you aren’t so proper as to have never heard it before,” he said, and she nodded in agreement.

“Touché,” she replied, and he put his arm around her shoulder.

“You hungry?”

“Yes!” She didn’t mean to raise her voice a little, but in the pain of saying goodbye to her mother she had forgotten completely about eating. As soon as Maine mentioned the prospect of food, however, the need to eat came back so strongly that she swayed a little in its astounding power.

“That’s what I thought.”

He gave her shoulders a little squeeze, and steered her out the door of her quarters down the hallway to the dining room of the train. As he chattered away amicably, it was all too easy to lose herself in the sense of safety and protection he provided. True, he was only two years older than her, but sometimes he didn’t show it; like beneath his exuberance there was some sort of hidden scars she would never be privy to.

She stopped short at the thought, and a renewed sense of fear flooded through her. Looking up into his eyes, eyes that threatened to carry her to other, happier places, it truly hit her.

_Only one of us will be going home. And if it came down to it, would I save myself over him?_

* * *

York liked his mentor right away.

Well, technically he had two mentors, but York felt drawn to Peeta Mellark as soon as the older boy had introduced himself to York and South with a gentle smile. York had seen him more times than he could count, of course—he and Katniss Everdeen had won the legendary 74th Hunger Games three years ago as the “star-crossed lovers of District 12”. All of Panem had been glued to the Games that year, or at least, that was how York felt about it. He had seen Peeta’s sincerity in his declaration of love right away. Katniss, he had been uncertain about. She was strong, sure, and had a talent with a bow and arrow that York’s deft fingers could only dream of replicating.

But there was something about her that he didn’t quite trust, nor could he put his finger on why. York didn’t claim to be a romantic by any stretch of the imagination, but seeing how far Peeta had gone for Katniss in the Games slowly began to change his mind, even if he wouldn’t admit it to anyone but himself, though he could barely do that at the best of times.

York stared down at the plate of food in front of him, still barely able to comprehend it all. In some stupid, irrational place in his mind he thought if he blinked it would all disappear, that this was all some sort of surreal, nightmare-dream that had started with the reaping. Everything about the train ride to the Capitol was dream-like, nearly too good to be true. At least it would be if he wasn’t constantly reminded of why he was here, why he was being buttered up.

Still, he couldn’t help himself as he tore into another roll; soft and still warm, it was so different from the bread he knew in District 12, bread that he had never gotten enough of to begin with. It took all his self control not to descend upon the heaps of food like a desperate savage, and when he looked up he saw Peeta’s blue eyes fixed on him.

Quickly, York sat up straighter, taking his elbows off the table. He hoped the wolfish expression was gone, but judging by the amused expression on Peeta’s face, he had not done a very good job.

“It’s okay,” his mentor reassured him. “Trust me, I know the feeling.”

“Yeah,” York muttered, wishing he was better at small talk.

“Here.” Peeta passed a dish of lamb stew in York’s direction. “Eat as much as you can—without getting sick, of course. You’ll need it in the Arena.”

Of course, at the mention of the Arena, York lost all desire to eat ever again. He must have been looking a bit green around the gills, as his fellow tribute, South, looked up from her dish with an unsettling, sweet smile on her face.

“Are you okay?” she asked, brushing back a stray piece of his hair. It was an intimate gesture—too intimate—and York was paralyzed by it, by the food, by the overwhelming anxiety that grew in sheer volume the closer they got to the Capitol.

He couldn’t speak, and he wasn’t quite sure how to even describe the sound that came out of his mouth. Peeta stood up from his place, looking at York with concern.

“Maybe—“

But South was one step ahead, and took York by the shoulders. “I’ll take him back to his room,” she said smoothly, and Peeta raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything more.

Her hands gripped York tightly, but he allowed himself to be steered away from the table. Just as he rounded the corner, however, he managed to catch Peeta’s bright blue eyes. And, for a moment, it was like the two were connected in thought, both trying to make sense of the scene in front of them. At first glance, it was perfectly innocent, but there was something about South Dakota that left York deeply shaken, though he could not place why.


	4. Recovering Two

_“Hi everybody, I'm super horny from all the robot killing. Hey is it hot in here? Who wants to help me out of this heavy armor? This breastplate is **so itchy.** Bow chicka bow-“_

_“You're a pig.”_

_“I didn't even get to the part where the sailors show up.”_

\--Tucker, Tex, and Tucker again, Blood Gulch Chronicles: Episode 58

* * *

“Hey, can I kill him?”

Tex stared at her stylist, a coal skinned man who had the most ridiculous hair she had ever seen (dyed a vibrant shade of aqua), and a habit of staring at her chest like he was a stray dog begging for a treat. Sure, she had to grudgingly admit he did his job well—her hair hadn’t been this shiny in years, soft and curling ever so slightly at the edges as it fell down to her shoulders. But if he uttered the words “bow chicka bow wow” one more time, she figured it would be perfectly justifiable to punch him in the face.

At the very least.

Being scrubbed down from head to toe had given her little time for reflection, but now that she was out of pain, her skin pink and raw, she was given what she wanted the least—time to think. As her stylist, Tucker, muttered to himself and picked amongst outfits that would show off her “assets” as he called them, Tex wrapped the flimsy silk robe around herself and hummed a mindless tune.

Anything to block out Church’s last words to her, last words that refused to be tossed to one side like most others directed at her were. How many years had she put up with the insults and screaming from her mother, the so-called “motivation”? She had learned from any early age not to cry from the harsh words, or the even harsher smacks across the face when she had failed, yet again.

_Because the girl you’re becoming isn’t the Tex I love._

She put one hand up to her cheek and stepped towards the mirror, blinking back at the young woman who stared at her, unrelenting. Sure, her skin was smooth and clean—she wasn’t a complete filthy savage like the two tributes from District 12, though she hadn’t taken put much stock into making herself beautiful—but her eyes were harder now, a tough, unrelenting amber instead of their usual caramel color. She had no idea when this change had occurred, but one look and she knew Church had been right, and her stomach heaved at the thought.

_It wasn’t supposed to go this way!_

She was always the right one, always the one who had the sense of direction, the leadership after the two. Church may have thrown insults back at her when provoked enough, but he had never been the one to take the initiative in anything.

“Here you are, baby.” Tucker handed her what appeared to be a length of grey fabric made of something thin that curved and twisted in her hands. He didn’t take notice of the unhappiness in Tex’s features, and she didn’t really expect him to. What could you really expect from someone who spent an hour and a half talking about his sexual escapades in far more detail than Tex ever wanted to hear?

She unfolded the fabric, and stared at it for a moment, uncomprehending. “You…want me to wear a dress.”

“It’s not gonna kill you. Unless, of course, if looks can kill. Bow chicka—“

“Get out.”

* * *

“Well…this is…um…” South was very rarely at a loss for words, but the coal miner’s get-up in front of her left her utterly speechless. And not in the good way.

She would have thought after the splash Katniss had made at the 74th Games as “the girl on fire” would have caused an improvement in the costume South had to wear. However, with a new stylist, Grif (who took the word ‘lazy’ to a new level), it seemed all the good that had been done in Katniss’ and Peeta’s year stylistically had been washed down the drain.

“At least you’re not naked and covered in coal dust.” Katniss stared at it, shaking her head and murmuring something under her breath about how it was shame Cinna was no longer assigned to District 12.

“You know, naked would almost be preferable.” South didn’t notice York sneak up behind her; at the sound of his voice it took all her willpower not to be jump in surprise.

Instead, she tried for a cynical, affected tone. “Yeah, I’m sure you’d love to be paraded in front of the Capitol in absolutely nothing at all.”

York shrugged his shoulders. “And I care what they think because…?”

“Because you want sponsors, don’t you?” South placed her hands on her hips and brushed away a stray blonde curl. “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not starve to death in the arena if I can help it.”

The magic word for every tribute. The more sponsors a tribute managed to rack up, the more money could be donated, and therefore, more supplies could be sent into the arena via tiny, silver parachutes—their only contact with the outside world. It was a joint effort, between the tributes themselves, their stylists, and their mentors, who bore the brunt of responsibility in getting supplies to their young charges.

But for South, it was more than that. More than survival, more than the last one standing, half dead, like all the other victors over the years.

No, this was personal.

Really, none of this would have happened if it hadn’t been for her twin. North. Silly, “noble” North, who had considered it his responsibility to look after her— he was two minutes older and apparently that had made him all knowing, and left her helpless.

She snorted and rolled her eyes.

Yeah, helpless.

It was North had been helpless a year ago, when he had been picked for the Games. He had “ boldly sacrificed himself for a younger tribute in her death throes”.

Or, as South put it, “been a complete idiot, and gotten himself killed for absolutely no reason whatsoever.” The noble explanation had stuck, however, and afterward South found herself been held up against a shadow. After a while, she had stopped caring what strangers thought. Learned to toss back her curls, and slap on an arrogant expression to deflect their pity glances.

But her mother?

Her mother had never forgotten, and probably never would. South had always suspected that her mother had favored North, and after his body had been delivered to their home, her suspicion had become reality. Her mother changed that day, and not in a way South expected. She would have thought her mother would collapse from grief, weeping, and unable to move forward. But move forward she did. However, all of her anger had to go somewhere, and South became the target of it.

She didn’t look like her twin, and sometimes she wondered if that made it easier for her mother to leave the bruises. It always started the same way: South had done something “wrong”. Broken a glass. Gotten an ‘unacceptable’ grade in school. Talked back when she shouldn’t have. The list of failures went on and on, and the more South pulled away from her, the harder the blows rained down. Reminders. Each bruise told a story, spoke another one of her failures, another way of telling her how unlike her twin she had been.

On days the days it became too much to handle, she would spend time in the Meadow, wandering aimlessly, or when she was feeling bolder, wiggle under the fence and go into the woods. She never did much, just sat down on the occasional tree stump and looked up at the sky. But very quickly, those quiet moments meant the world to her. Where she could be no one at all, another blonde haired, blue eyed girl with no name, and no place.

She always had to come back, of course. But she held onto those precious minutes at night, during the dreary hours of school, and now, in the alien world of the Capitol, and the Games to follow.

“South?” Someone was calling her, though she couldn’t place exactly who. “South, are you with me? South?”

“What?” She blinked, trying to focus on the present, even if said present involved hideous get-ups made by new stylists who didn’t know what they were doing, or just didn’t care. “Right. Uh, sorry.”

It was Peeta who was addressing her now, and she quickly straightened up, trying to convey the appearance of full attention, even if her mind was still back in District 12. “Don’t sweat it,” he said, and gestured towards the clothes in front of her. “I know it’s not…”

“It’s not the best.” She put on her most tactful voice, and she could see the amusement in his eyes.

Katniss, however, looked far from amused by her acting, regarding South with a wary, mistrustful eye, like she was expecting South to reveal some sort of backhanded strategy.

And, of course, South would do no such thing.

At least, that’s what she hoped everyone would think, as she disappeared into the room she had been assigned.

Such was the giddiness of her freedom that she didn’t stop twice to consider that while Katniss may not be the most gullible of sorts, York’s soft, easygoing exterior hid more secrets than she would ever know.


End file.
